


Don't Stain Your Bed

by jotunblood



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Letters, M/M, POV Albus Dumbledore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 18:33:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18878866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jotunblood/pseuds/jotunblood
Summary: Least said, soonest mended wasn't the sort of advice Gellert took. He always fought for the last word, even with himself.





	Don't Stain Your Bed

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short, Dumbledore-centric grindeldore idea that's been buzzing around my head for the last few days. I'm in love with epistolary fics, but always afraid to commit to a full length one. Hopefully y'all enjoy this little slice instead! I had a good time writing it. 
> 
> As always, let me know what y'all think. I appreciate every bit of feedback.

Albus finished making tea before opening the letter. He always did so when the letter came from Nurmengard. From any other address he would’ve opened it upon reception. He valued his correspondents' time and didn’t like to keep them waiting. But with these, that sense of urgency was muted. Nurmengard was a prison, and the man sending from it had no plans. Even if he wanted to make them, he couldn’t have. Spare time was the only currency he had. 

Gellert didn’t write often; during his tenure thus far as Headmaster, Albus had only received ten letters from the man. They came years apart, one never referencing another, and always on a yellowed scrap of parchment. The script was shaky-- age had ruined his perfect penmanship-- and ran the piece front to back in slanted lines. Perhaps because parchment was scarce or difficult to barter for. The latter was most likely, as Albus doubted that the guards and administrators wanted for anything. Gellert had never been popular, least of all in his host countries. It was doubtful the warden gave more than absolutely necessary.

It accounted, he supposed, for the infrequency of the letters, but that could just as easily come down to other factors. Having little to report on, for example. His life was unchanging, and very little news reached him first. By the time he thought to write about it, whatever tidbit he’d caught would’ve already passed through Albus’ ear a dozen times.

Uncertainty could be another pen-staying culprit, bolstered by the fact he never wrote back. Not that the letters called for it; they were closed circuit rambling. There was hardly any room to respond. Grindelwald left no foothold and rarely asked a question that he didn’t answer himself a few lines later. They read like airings out of heart, which Dumbledore supposed _he_ could’ve done. He never did, though. Or if he did, he folded it neatly before incinerating the pointless, hand wringing missive right on his desk.

 _Not out of hate, you understand_ , he’d say aloud to no one, watching his own piece of parchment turn to ash. Sometimes Fawkes would squawk, giving semblance of an audience. _I don’t hate you_. Then again. _I don’t hate you._

The notional jury was still out on whether or not he meant that.

Regardless, he never put off the reading overlong. If he did, he was likely to forget it. He was forgetting more these days, or rather: misplacing thoughts. They always came back, if not always when it was convenient. And whether or not he meant that he didn’t hate the man, he didn’t want to forget Gellert’s letters. He didn’t want to forget anything about him, for reasons he _also_ didn’t want to forget, though he had no desire to speak them aloud. 

This one had been waiting when he came out of his room that morning. An owl must’ve dropped it overnight, leaving it to be delivered by an early rising house elf. It sat on the singular empty space on his desk, perfectly centered like the gift it wasn’t. His heart clenched in recognition. The envelope was dingy and stamped across the face with the seal of Nurmengard. The ugly stamp smudged his own name and address so badly he was amazed the letter was deliverable. It looked out of place, even in the clutter of tea stained papers and other correspondences. The smirch it left on the room was as real as the one Gellert left on time.

He didn’t want to read it. Just seeing it there made him feel older. When his tea was steeped, though, and his day clothes on, and there was nothing left to do but start his business, he knew he didn’t have much choice. He hesitated a moment longer: sat at the desk staring down at it, letter opener in hand and hoping to be interrupted. It was the weekend, and surely Harry would quite suddenly needed something, or Minerva have a pressing matter to discuss. Neither came, though. He sat alone, surrounded by time and general unpleasantness.

In that way, he supposed, he and Grindelwald were still twined. _That_ he did hate, and had no qualms about admitting it.

“So,” he sighed, slipping the letter opener under the flap. He sliced it open with a single, careless swipe. “So, so, so.”

Fawkes squawked, and he was grateful for it. It gave him courage as he dumped out the scrap of parchment.

 _Albus_ , it began.

It always began with _Albus_ , and he could hear how Gellert drawled it. Or rather, how he used to back when they were confidants. The man’s honey tones and accent made a treat of the name. When he said it, Dumbledore thought of a fat, bobbing bee. He thought of sweet things and never once imagined the end of them. It'd been boyish, but what could he have known?

Better, he supposed. He could’ve always known better, but that was the way with bastard men and bastard lovers. Grindelwald was always moving in ways Albus didn’t really want to know about. But that, as they say, was in the past now.

 

 _Albus_ , it began,

_Do you remember our plans to visit my grandfather’s old stronghold in the Balkans? I’ve been thinking of it, and must confess: it’s best we didn’t. I described it less honestly than I really should have. It was a ruin even when I was a boy. By the time I could’ve taken you, it might well have been rubble, and you would’ve known me for a liar too soon._

_I’ve been thinking, too-- and please do forgive me-- of how your shirt clung when we went walking in the rain. You always were so handsome wet, and I confess again: I once dreamt of drowning with you, so that the last thing I saw was your soaked chest._

_But that’s grotesque, and I don’t mean to be. I lack the stamina these days. Even fantasy is tiring for an old man such as myself. Perhaps you understand, though perhaps not. What news reaches me makes me think you're still well. That's good, truly. I wish you a full life, with whomever it is you steal away with these days. He is a good man, I trust, and if not, God help him, as I assume he’s soon to be a dead one. I know from experience that at the end of your patience is a knife, and don’t envy anyone catching the edge of it._

_One more thought, if I may: lately I’ve been dreaming. Not of drowning, but of an open grave. I know that one of us is interred there, but I never look inside. Even in dreams, it seems, I’m afraid. I don’t want to know which one of us outlives the other, because I fear it’s a race I'll win. If we cannot die together-- and time for that has long passed-- then I at least would like the kindness of dying first. This cell could only be colder if I learned of your passing; as to the reason, I leave guessing to you._

_Dream sweetly or not at all, and try not to skip towards death. You're braver than I, and this has always been true. I hope to write again, so please don’t spoil my plans._

_Yours, for what it’s worth: G._

 

Albus read the letter through several times, turning it carefully whenever he started over. The paper was chalky and water damaged. It must’ve been in his cell for weeks as he thought over how to word it. It was Gellert’s way, he remembered. It used to take him over a week to answer their letters. Even when they met in person, he was slow to choose his words. It wasn’t surprising that isolation worsened the habit. 

“For what it’s worth,” he muttered, mimicking the man’s signoff. Refolding the scrap, he tucked it back into its envelope. When it was safe, he plucked his glasses off and let them clatter to the desk. “How much does he think that is, I wonder?”

It wasn’t a serious question, and even if it was, no one was there to answer. No one but Fawkes, who only squawked again. The sound was grating and less helpful than before. He closed his eyes and pinched the crooked bridge of his nose, hoping the tightness there wasn’t the start of a headache. He slid his free hand over the desk, feeling out the edges of the envelope, and when he found it shoved it under a stack of papers. 

Taking a moment to collect himself, he snatched his glasses up again then pushed back sharply from his desk. He didn’t want to be there just now, he decided. 

He spent the morning convincing himself that had nothing to do with Gellert Grindelwald.


End file.
